


Think Of Me (if you can)

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies (even though Jon is... like that), Brief mentions of injuries (Burns), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Immediately post-120, Like Jon's THERE but ya know... he's not involved, Recounting first dates, background jonmartin, it's just Martin experiencing lovesickness and good friendship for about 3k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: Even with Elias gone and someone new running the Institute, Martin can't leave Jon's hospital bedside-- and Tim can't leave Martin to worry himself sick and starved. Martin can't help it though; worrying is all he can do at the moment. Anything else feels like abandonment, right he was starting to get to know Jon...[the Tim lives/Martim best friend content we all deserve]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Think Of Me (if you can)

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered an intense weakness for writing Martin and Tim as best friends. AND sometimes best friends just hold hands and would say 'i love you' in a heartbeat...  
> Enjoy the result of such discovery after listening to the end of MAG 120-- Elias be gone, bring on the angst!

He wasn’t breathing.

Jon very clearly wasn’t breathing, but he wasn’t dead either. He was a living corpse—or maybe just a thinking one. Maybe this was the true embodiment of the Eye; a prison of thinking _thinking_ **_thinking_** —and never doing. Never being able to.

Martin was sitting beside the hospital bed. He was holding his sixth cold cup of coffee, up and awake for the third day in a row. But he hadn’t taken one sip. Jon wasn’t breathing, and they kept asking him—asking _Martin_ of all people—what he wanted the doctors to do with him.

_He’s not brain dead, but if he is unable to move or communicate—even if he doesn’t need to breathe or eat on his own… technically—what kind of life is it? Think of his quality of life, Mr. Blackwood. Think on it._

Would it be killing Jon if there was nothing to do except… leave him there and forget?

Yes, it would be. And Martin refused to do it.

“Knock Knock.” The presence of another person set Martin on edge; he’d stared so long at the same tear in Jon’s hospital blanket that his eyes had become a mold: anything new that changed his vision was unwelcome. Comfort was a simple, unattainable necessity.

Still though, Martin had to say hello. He _was_ relieved someone was there. “Hi, Tim.”

Tim walked slowly and with a long, dragging gait, pulling his IV in after him. He waved Martin away as he tried to help him sit in the other bedside chair. Tim was in a hospital gown and wrapped mostly in bandages; his burns were well concealed and let Martin’s disturbed vision be no more terrifying than it was before. Martin gladly put his coffee on the floor, welcoming the new company.

“Hey, Martin.” Tim released his IV pole and placed a hand on Martin’s arm. His hands were warm. Martin supposed _that_ was expected. “How is he—how are _you_?”

“Fine.” Martin was answering neither of Tim’s questions.

“Doctors say anything about our medical miracle?” Tim’s voice pitched up like he was going to laugh, but Martin never heard the pay off. “Do they know anything?”

“No.”

“Right.” Tim squeezed Martin’s arm. The clock ticked on the wall. Maybe they could pretend _that_ was the third breathing pattern in the room. “You think he hears us?”

“No idea.” Martin wasn’t sure if he wanted Jon to have witnessed his midnight hours of silent crying: hurried sniffling and whining into the sleeve of his sweater. But then again, if hearing Martin beg for Jon to just take a breath—just _one breath_ —got his lungs to inflate again in an extended, long-missed gasp, Martin wouldn’t be displeased.

“Have you gone _home_ yet?” Tim’s voice was always warm, always full and direct, but Martin never remembered it being _so_ heavy. Martin could feel it on his shoulders, like an embrace bearing down on him.

“No.”

“Martin, you have to.”

“I can’t.”

“I—I know it’s hard but—I can stay with Jon while you go home. Get some rest and wash up or… I don’t know? Read a book or something while sitting on your _own_ couch. Be a person, please. _Don’t_ become—”

“What? Like _Jon_?” Martin snapped, clenching his jaw. Jon was still human. Still _had_ to be.

“What they want us to become.” Tim finished pointedly. “You’re of no use to him if you’re half-way delirious and starved.”

“I know. I just can’t leave.”

Martin _could_ physically, but he felt like there was something lost every time he left a hospital without having been there for recovery. Change always happened in a hospital. Going in and coming out was an _Argo_ -like exercise: changing everything inside but pretending to be the same thing, same name. Thinking one had the luxury of being the same person they were before.

“ _Martin_ ,” Tim stopped. “… Okay.” His hand slipped down and gripped Martin’s hand. Martin minded the IV and let his hand become malleable enough to be wrapped up. The familiarity hurt—like cutting an old scar. It wasn’t consuming any new space, but it bled just as hard as the last time.

Martin inhaled sharply, trying not to cry again. He’d been remembering all the worrying moments for the past few days that he’d nearly forgotten the good ones. He didn’t know the happy ones had the sharpest blades.

“You know,” Martin said with a sniffle. Tim turned to him with careful attentiveness: not staring, but looking at him with only one focus. “right before he flew off to China—went all over the place—we went on a date.”

“What?” Tim had heard, he just didn’t know what else to ask to get Martin to keep talking. Although, Martin didn’t need the invitation; he was going to anyway.

“We had lunch. Well, went _during_ a lunch break… Elias was at some administrative meeting or something and—we figured no one would be watching. I—” Martin’s nose tingled and he thought he was going to start sobbing, but he forced out a yawn instead. “I joked it made me feel like I was a bloody teenager again. Sneaking out with someone I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Yeah, bet it felt like that.” Tim remembered how to laugh, quiet and short. “Dating the _boss_.”

Martin nodded, biting his lip and coughing; he hadn’t quite remembered yet.

“What’s it like?” Tim asked. “I mean, what’s… _romantic_ Jon like? I feel like I never gave it a thought—never thought it was _possible_ —” Martin turned, trying _not_ to glare at Tim. “I bet he’s nice, is what I mean. Listens well, yeah? Or did you not really have to talk to have him know—”

“He asks a lot of questions.” Martin was sure he’d found the memory for a giggle, finally. “Not like, _Asks_ questions. But he was curious. Wanted to know about growing up sort of—mostly like... who I was as a kid, you know? Like he was trying to get a clear picture of me outside of the years he’d ever know me. It almost… It almost made me kind of sad.”

“Feel like lost time?”

“No… More like… You just _really_ wish you understood why you feel so happy… There’s got be something that makes everything feel familiar.”

“Did you find it? That one… overlap?”

“No!” Martin smiled despite not feeling the least bit happy. “There is nothing. We’re just… We were just coworkers, friends—well, bit of _distant_ acquaintances in the interim, really. We don’t even have the same favorite season!”

“Like… the weather?” Tim somehow managed to both raise his eyebrows and furrow them at the same time.

“No, the—Vivaldi? The classical piec—never mind.” It had been Martin’s first attempt at small talk—asking about the weather—but Jon had jumped immediately to composers. And well, that was just the most endearing thing Martin had ever seen. Still was.

“Hm.” Tim adjusted his hand and laced his fingers through Martin’s. “Match made in He—Well, match made, huh?”

“Sure.” It was stupid to admit, but part of Martin felt flattered. Felt relieved. They really were an odd match—two people probably _making_ the match and writing over top of whatever the world had planned for them—but at least other people saw that it was something nice being put into the world. Something untouched by the impending Unknowing.

“Did he at least pay? He’s got that Head Archivists salary.” Tim bumped Martin’s wrist against the arm of the chair, trying to sound smug. Trying to make it seem like Jon was out of the room rather than dead in front of them. “Go anywhere worth while?”

“The coffee place just around the corner, at the end of the street?” Martin motioned with his free hand, as if drawing on a map. “Marigolds—or something?”

“Magnolias.”

“Right! Right. I—I’ve never looked at the name when I’d do a coffee run for us. But apparently it’s Jon’s favorite place to get a blackberry scone.”

“Jonathan Sims eats _scones_?” _Ate_ , technically.

Martin looked at his friend—burned and still wearing a bit of terror under his eyes— to see him staring, perplexed, at the dead man in front of them. “Why does _that_ surprise you so much? Why is _that_ the thing you can’t comprehend?”

“I—the man doesn’t know how to have _fun_.”

“He’s _right there_ , Tim.” Martin said sharply, grimacing.

“Right—sorry. Just color me shocked is all. A _scone_. Don’t tell him I said so but, that’s kind of charming.” Tim lowered his voice and turned his head away from Jon.

“It was a lovely scone too. We split it.” The gesture had been insisted upon by Jon. Martin refused twice if only to give him a chance to take the intimacy back. Jon only pushed harder.

“You split _food?_ Oh, Martin, why didn’t you _tell_ me things were so serious.”

“Oh, shut it.” Martin dropped Tim’s hand to smack his bicep— on the only place that wasn’t covered in wet bandages.

“What? That makes it a real date—can’t pretend you just ‘went to coffee with a coworker’ if you shared your food. Wow, romantic Jon _might_ know what he’s doing.” Tim raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. Tim winced as he pressed against the hard-curved bar framing the edge of it. He gathered himself—softening his expression again—before nodding. “You’re doing great work, Boss.” He paused, his mouth twitching. “Sorry I doubted your ability to have a heart.”

Martin knew Jon had one whether or not one was _actually_ beating in his chest. Jon's heart was full and open and very willing to love—it was also just very scarred from being cut open prematurely. It was understandable, Martin needing no explanation from Jon when he tried to backtrack about how cruel he’d been to Martin in passing: a defensive against something Martin hadn't done, would _never_ do.

Sure, the scone was delicious, but more importantly it came with a sincere apology, spoken as Jon broke the food in half. Breaking bread and toasting to the second chance they’d agreed to give themselves. Until the world very greatly disagreed.

“He’s going to be fine, Martin.” Tim took Martin’s hand again, but without the preamble of silent comfort. His grip was tight, and his touch was intentional. Martin understood the appeal surrounding Tim a little bit better at that moment. He _emanated_ a kind of loyalty that scared Martin, even if it was toward himself. “He… He wouldn’t just _die_ on us.”

“He is dead, Tim.”

“Everything but his brain, which, arguably, is the one thing on Jon that _never_ stops working.” Tim said. “We’ve got a best-case scenario here: strongest muscle still has full function.”

“Best-case scenario is he walked away from that explosion _fine_ and able to form complete sentences— _hell_ , even just breathe on his own!” Martin cried. He sure had remembered how to shout and panic. Why hadn't _that_ response numbed first?

Before being placed and poised in his bed, Jon had been limp in Tim and Basira’s arms. It was an image Martin was sure was being projected in front of him; he never thought he could stomach it in real life. Martin surprised himself when he was able to call for help, his voice far steadier than it had ever been while in a panic before. Part of Martin thought it had to have been some other person speaking through him—maybe Jon, compelling Martin to speak on his behalf.

Tim pulled Martin’s arm over and rested their hands on his leg as he began bouncing it. “I bet he can hear us.” Tim placed his other hand on top of Martin’s. “And I bet he knows you’re here. That you’ve been watching over _him_ for a change. I’m sure it’s appreciated.”

It wasn’t really a joke, Martin could tell. There was a genuine nature in the way Tim tried to guide things to a lighter note; to allow the other person a moment of relief from their overbearing anxiety without the wash of shame of needing just _one_ moment to smile.

“Thank you, Tim. I’m so sorry—”

“Ack, no need for that, come on. You’ve got nothing to apologize for. We’re all ali—all _here_ and that’s all that matters. This isn’t a score-keeping kind of moment.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Martin said the statement softly, allowing for argument in the definition of _okay_.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how all these bandages work—I have been promised a possible skin graft if I really look like a monster.” Tim feigned excitement and grinned. Martin’s hands were beginning to sweat in Tim’s grip. He was still _so warm_. Tim probably shouldn't have even have been out of bed.

“You’ll be fine. I think it’s impossible for you to look _bad_ , Tim.” Martin wiggled a finger, gently poking Tim’s leg. It had changed from mindless motion into anxious shaking.

“Hey hey _hey_! Not in front of the _boyfriend_.” Tim’s faux gasp wiped away the fearful shadow crossing over his face. “You can’t let him know you were _my_ boy first. Asking me all those archival questions, getting me coffee, hanging out and cleaning up Jon’s _messy_ filing system… _Those_ are real dates. I walked you home and everything!”

“That’s because I _lived_ in the archives.” Martin said, rolling his eyes but letting Tim go on. The idea that he and Tim were even remotely (or perhaps _currently_ ) interested in each other—outside of being friends that seemed to keep surviving horrible things—was by far the best laugh Martin could get.

“Still, you can’t let Jon know you’re sneaking around on him.” Tim whispered. Martin could handle the thought for only a minute; could only consider the possibility of abandoning the skeleton of a relationship barely begun for one shaky second. Every other relationship in Martin’s life would feel like sneaking around. Feel second best. Luckily, Tim had kept on and left Martin new conversation to latch onto. “—although, you _are_ right. Even with about twenty metres of scar tissue, I can’t _really_ look bad. Everyone loves scars, right?” Tim turned to Jon, giving an exemplary wave toward him.

Scars looked wrong on a dead man. What did it mean to have evidence of an injury, of a survived slash, if it lay on a throat that couldn’t take a breath? Why did the body have to show evidence of healing so proudly if it wasn’t going to do it again? Not once more. Not in the way Jon needed it most. Scars were just ghosts; haunting the skin for the purpose of bothering the living and hoarding the dead.

“Martin?” Tim squeezed his hand. “Martin, are you there?”

“What? S-Sorry I, uh,” Martin tore his eyes away from the familiar coiled and folded scar on Jon’s hand. The one that had held Martin’s weeks prior with an overwhelming tenderness Martin was unable to conjure with Tim’s grip so tight around his hand. Already, Martin was losing Jon. “I was just… Sorry.”

Tim looked at Jon, rather than Martin, as he nodded. “Not ready for jokes yet. I-I get it. Sorry I pushed.”

“Tim, no, I—”

“I’ll leave you two.” Tim insisted without malice.

Martin held onto Tim’s hand as long as he could before Tim carefully placed it back on Martin’s own lap. He smiled down at Martin, bright but pleading. A silent plea to not dissolve or shrink away while alone in Jon’s room. To _go home_. It was also a resigned smile as Tim and Martin both knew he just _couldn’t_ leave Jon.

Before going back into the hallway, Tim leaned on Jon’s bed with one arm, gripping his IV pole for balance. He hunched down and spoke quietly into Jon’s ear, despite not entirely speaking to Jon.

“Hey. Boss. You better yourself back online and take this boy on a proper date, or I’ll Dream Warrior myself in there and beat you up myself. I’ve got quite a swing on me.” Tim patted Jon’s cheek, smiling at him. “We aren’t through with you—and you better not be done with us. We need you. _You_ you, okay?” He pushed himself back upright, reaching out to Martin for balance—and resting his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Martin. Hopefully in a _different_ change of clothes.”

“I’ll try my best.” Martin patted Tim’s hand. It was a quiet request for it to be removed. “Thanks.” Martin just wanted to be alone.

And, _God_ it bothered Martin that he thought of sitting in a room with Jon as being _alone_. He _wasn’t_ : Martin had physical company, as well as another mind in the room. It counted as company. Martin couldn’t be alone, not technically, as Tim left. But of course, counting his boyfriend only on a _technicality_ was not the reassurance Martin was hoping for. In fact, it wasn’t hope at all.

When had Martin lost all hope for Jon, for their _supposed to be_? Maybe it just was better for Martin to consider when the last time was that he had any hope at all. It couldn't have been the last time he was alone _with_ Jon, timidly sharing part of himself over tea, coffee, and a scone. Martin had to know how to have hope without Jon's faltering, uneasy-but-not-uncomfortable grin. Martin had to know how to be hopeful when he didn't have a warm cuppa in one hand and the hand of a gentle but guarded man in the other. Martin had to know how to do it when all he was holding was his sixth ice cold cup of burnt, black coffee. Martin _had_ to know. But he didn't. Alone, Martin didn't know how.

And Martin was alone, he knew that well enough.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading my outpouring of tma fic. Hope it scratched that Martim itch for ya. There SHALL be more of our kayaking king.  
> -m


End file.
